Page 8 of The Proposal

I throw back my head and crack up. Lucia is the complete opposite of her sister. She’s easygoing, funny, and personable, whereas Arabella is … not.

She reaches for my glass, takes it out of my hand, and downs the amber liquid in one gulp. “Should you be drinking? How old are you?”

She flicks her hand. “I’ll be turning eighteen next month.”

I knew she was young, but seventeen?

Seventeen!

“How old is your sister?” I ask, the irony not lost on me. Knowing her age should be a given, considering she’s now my wife.

“Twenty.”

I wince. I’m thirty-one, which means we have an eleven-year age gap. I didn’t expect that.

“What’s with that face?” Lucia asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m eleven years older than her.”

“That’s nothing. At least she got to marry the young Mancini, not the old one.”

I grab another drink from the silver tray as the waiter passes, bringing the glass to my lips. “Alexander?”

“No, your father.”

“What?” I choke, the scotch spraying from my mouth.

“I overheard Papa talking about their nuptials before your father passed. Arabella had no idea.”

I bang my open palm on my chest as I cough up a lung. “The fuck!” That can’t be true.

“Ask Papa if you don’t believe me, but don’t tell him you heard it from me. He has no idea I listen in on his conversations sometimes.”

I intend to do just that. My father never mentioned anything about remarrying, and to a child, no less. He was sixty-five years old, for fuck’s sake. That’s sick.

I scan the room, searching for Stefano, but I don’t see him anywhere. Come to think of it, I don’t see my bride either. She’s been avoiding me like the plague ever since we arrived here. She was forced to sit beside me as we ate, but she disappeared as soon as the food was consumed.

“Where is your sister?” I ask, glancing down at Lucia. Like Arabella, she’s short—barely five feet—so I tower over them both.

“She’s locked away in the bathroom, crying.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. No woman has ever made me feel as despised as she does. Even after the ceremony, when it was time for the kiss, our lips barely met before she pulled away and wiped her mouth. It pissed me off beyond belief.

Lucia places her hand on my arm when my lips thin. “It’s not you … well, not really. It’s the whole blood on the sheet ritual that comes later.”

“It’s a barbaric fucking ritual if you ask me.”

“You don’t do that in Australia?”

“Fuck no. We are no longer in the Dark Ages.”

I can’t believe they still do this here. What a married couple do—or in our case, don’t do—on their wedding night should be nobody’s business but their own.

When Stefano first informed me of the tradition, I was floored. I looked it up as soon as I got back to my estate. It’s an ancient custom meant to prove the woman’s virtue, where thebloodstained bedsheets are displayed to the guests the morning after.

It’s sick and depraved, and I told him I wanted no part of it. I already knew there would be no consummation of our marriage, but he informed me I didn’t have a choice. His and Arabella’s reputation would be on the line if we didn’t produce the evidence.

That knowledge had me plotting my next move. I plan to stay one step ahead of that motherfucker whenever I can. If he needs to see blood, then blood’s what he’ll get, but it won’t be mine or his daughters.

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